


let's get unprofessional

by veterization



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctor/Patient, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:35:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is young, untouched, and Peter's favorite patient. He wants to corrupt him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's get unprofessional

**Author's Note:**

> This is really just a shameless PWP. Doctor/patient also happens to hit a pretty big kink button for me, and I wanted to write something porny in the middle of all the blurs of 20k oneshots. Needless to say, more of those are coming too because my life is consumed by writing the same two people have crazy sex over and over again.
> 
> Title is from the song Just a Little Bit by Kids of 88.

Stiles’ first doctor is a kind, soft-spoken elderly woman with frazzled hair and a loud wardrobe that contradicts her quiet tone, and Stiles spends a good few years answering her gentle questions about his panic attacks and anxiety and being patted on the head on his way out the door.

His second doctor comes when he’s thirteen. She’s sterner, with dark hair and darker eyes, all stony professionalism and latex gloves, even when she’s scribbling on a clipboard. She doesn’t make much eye contact and certainly doesn’t give out lollipops, but Stiles can tell from the myriad of frames and paperwork hung pristinely on the wall that she’s incredibly smart, experienced, and qualified to feel his chest for breathing abnormalities. 

When she switches offices to a fancier building downtown not a year later, Stiles gets a new doctor, and this time, they’re not old and kind or strong and young.

“I’m Dr. Hale,” the man says as he slips in the door and surveys Stiles. “But if it feels strange, call me Peter.” Then his eyes rove down Stiles like he’s just caught a glimpse of the appetizers, and he smiles. “And you must be Stiles.”

\--

Stiles first wanders through Peter's door when he's just shy of fourteen, all gangly limbs and knobby knuckles, a disproportionate prepubescent body and buzzcut hair, and Peter instantly wants to see the man he'll grow up to be.

He sees the potential he has right then and there—thicken out the muscles, define the growth, and replace the awkward limbs and jerky movements with the fortitude that comes with maturity, and he's a man. A man that could be Peter's favorite new patient. 

And then he looks out into the waiting room and sees his father, who just happens to be the sheriff who probably wouldn't mind kicking Peter's medical license into the mud if he found out that Peter wants to put a hand on his son outside of the usual examination protocol, and Peter focuses on the magically dangerous key word: if. 

Stiles is so young, so oblivious, so desperate to be touched without even knowing it how his body is always twisting, his fingers always itching for something to hold and toy with. Peter's almost positive he could get away with all sorts of things, and he definitely wants to, definitely won't be able to control himself as Stiles grows up. It's all a matter of tact, of using the friendly trustworthy smile of a doctor for long enough, and using his hands in the right way. He's quite good with his hands.

He looks at thirteen year old Stiles swaying his ankles on Peter's table and thinks soon, he'll have exactly what he wants, and thanks god for not the first time that he never cared much for legality anyway.

\--

Lucky for Peter, Stiles comes in a lot. He's riddled with all the things that warrant constant doctor attention, like insatiable ADD, frequent anxiety attacks, and a propensity for winding up with the oddest injuries courtesy of his unfixable clumsiness.

"So Stiles," Peter asks him while he runs a stethoscope up Stiles' chest and memorizes the steady sound of his rapid heartbeat. "How are the panic attacks?"

He's fourteen now, still with the same short hair and pretty pink mouth, and Peter listens carefully to every hitch of his chest as he moves the cool stethoscope up his torso, brushing a nipple on the way. He's too young, too young to touch, but he's not too young to tease. 

"They're okay," Stiles shifts on the table as Peter circles around to his backside. 

"And how do you deal with them?"

"Mostly breathing a lot, I guess," Stiles says. There are moles on Stiles' back, littered down his neck and dotted between his shoulder blades, and Peter feels his control slip. How easy it'd be to lean down and sink his teeth into that soft skin—

Peter takes a breath and tries to control himself. He's a grown man, for fuck's sake, and getting worked up over a kid's pale spine. That's the thing about Stiles—he's totally unremarkable with his baggy t-shirts and his talkative mouth. But Peter's gotten the chance to look closer, to examine Stiles and find the slender fingers and the potential underneath, and he thinks that this boy might just be the diamond in the rough Peter could mold to his liking.

"And how about further below," Peter asks on a dry mouth. "Everything working fine?"

He slides his free hand, torturously gloved, over to the small of Stiles' back and hears the pull in his breath as he readjusts and answers. The back of his neck heats up, almost like he's silently embarrassed, and Peter drags his hand up to his nape, feeling the heat there through the latex. 

"Um," Stiles fumbles. "Yeah."

Peter slides his hand back down, hiccupping over colonies of tiny moles on the way. His skin is so warm, so soft, and there's nothing professional about the tightness of Peter's pants as he strokes his thumb over the waistband of Stiles' jeans. "And are you capable of achieving orgasm?"

"...yeah," Stiles admits. Peter walks to his front, eager to see the erubescent blush high on Stiles' cheeks, and watches him duck his head to his knees. Endearing, so much so that Peter has to grab his clipboard to keep his itching fingers from indulging in their desire to pull Stiles' chin up and slip his fingers in his mouth just to see Stiles' pretty lips work around his knuckles.

"How?" Peter presses. His voice has gotten deeper, rougher, but he can't slow down now. The redness on Stiles' face spreads to his ears.

"Uh, just touch myself mostly," Stiles mumbles.

"Where?" Peter growls. His voice sounds aggressive to his own ears, and he struggles to soften his smile into something less predatory as Stiles looks up at him. "Just want to make sure you're being safe, Stiles."

"Oh," Stiles says. He's so hopelessly oblivious, so completely unaware of how the idea of being spread open on his sheets bringing himself to climax twists Peter's brain. His hands clench around the charts in his hands. "Uh, just touch my dick, mostly.”

“How often?”

“…maybe once a day, usually,” Stiles mumbles. Peter can imagine it, Stiles swept up by his teenager hormones and getting hard once, maybe even twice in one day, having to jack off in a shower or under the privacy of his sheets. Peter wants to watch.

Peter has to _control himself_.

“There’s nothing wrong with indulging yourself,” he tells Stiles with a small smile. “As a matter of fact, it’s healthy. As long as it’s just you.” He looks down at his chart again, marked with useless scribbles that make no difference to him. Not today, not when he has a different agenda. “Are you a virgin, Stiles?”

“Yeah,” Stiles admits after a moment’s pause. Peter can’t fathom how. He can’t be the only one who’s aching to get their hands on those thighs, to feel Stiles submit under a firm hand. “Still virginal. Still have that v-card. Still haven’t popped that cherry.”

Peter smiles down at the collection of papers. Stiles is nothing if not amusing. “Good,” he murmurs. “Let’s keep it that way. Don’t want you,” he leans in, just a few steps, and feels his restraint pull and stretch like a rubber band—bound to break eventually. Pulled much too taut. He runs his hand down Stiles’ chin, resting on his neck. “To be tainted.”

He gives Stiles a look that he knows is frightening. It’s not meant to calm nerves or bring a smile to his lips. It’s meant to warn. It means _don’t let others touch_. He wants Stiles pure for his hands, wants him to be completely unfamiliar to the wonders of letting an experienced hand touch his body. He wants to be the first to destroy Stiles, slowly, wholly. Exclusively.

He finishes off the appointment with a toothy smile, bright and kind, nothing like the thoughts running wild under the disguise of his doctor’s smile. He claps Stiles on the back before he leaves, and tells his favorite patient to be careful.

Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that growing body of his, after all.

\--

The best thing about being a doctor, Peter thinks, is not the satisfaction of saving lives or curing diseases and worries alike, or having an entire medicine cabinet and prescription booklet to use at his mercy. It’s doctor-patient confidentiality. 

Most people don’t know, but it works both ways. Peter tells Stiles he won’t let anything he tells him slip from the safety of the examination room, and when Stiles gives up his secrets, he knows they won’t leave his mouth again. A teenage boy has much to be embarrassed about, much to keep secret. Peter doesn’t mind exploiting that infamous dishonesty. If Stiles is going to keep certain truths from his parent like any fifteen-year-old boy, Peter might as well give him a few secrets to keep quiet about.

Patients always like it when he leans in and tells them about the doctor and patient confidentiality clause. It makes them feel safe. It makes them feel trusted. When Peter tells Stiles—he hopes it has the opposite effect. He hopes it makes Stiles look at him differently, makes him realize that whatever happens here doesn’t have to exist elsewhere. Not in the sheriff’s case files, not in his house, not in gossip to his friends during lunchtime. Whatever happens here, it can be perfectly confidential. 

He mentions it to Stiles when they’re checking his reflexes half a year later, Peter’s fingers tapping out rhythms on his knees, and then he looks up and tells him, “just food for thought,” and when he looks up again, Stiles’ cheeks are burning red.

At least he catches on quickly. Peter likes that.

\--

They do his first big boy examination when Stiles is almost sixteen, and Peter sees the second he walks in the door that his hypothesis from years ago is right. Stiles' body is changing in all the right ways, just the slightest smattering of hair on his arms and a newfound cocky sarcasm to his body language that Peter eats up. He still looks innocent, so innocent that Peter's willing to wager that he's never so much as kissed a girl, and the idea of being the first to lay a hand on him, to drag a finger up his thigh and cup his cock, has Peter fighting to stay in control of his own hands. He may be a professional, but he's also highly tempted.

He’s nervous, and Peter delights in seeing the redness on the tips of his ears as Peter grabs for the gloves in foreshadowing that Stiles understands only too well. He’s probably used to female doctors with too much perfume that were dreadfully close to retirement cupping his junk for hernias, and now it’s Peter, a man whose only professionalism rests in the fact that there are gloves separating his skin from touching Stiles’.

“We’re, uh. We’re doing that already? Aren’t you supposed to take me to dinner first?” Stiles babbles, hands scrubbing at the bristles of hair at the hem of his neck. Peter revels in it, how shy his eyes are as he ducks his head and seesaws back and forth on the table. Peter thinks that Stiles probably should be nervous, especially considering how right now, his dominating thought is how much he’d like to see the marks of his stubble burning up Stiles’ legs until his skin is rubbed red.

Peter smiles. His discomfort is hopefully endearing, and he snaps on the second glove. “Are you nervous, Stiles?” he asks, his tone silky and smooth in a way that he knows always work on the anxious patients, how their eyes always flutter closed like they remember they’re in the hands of a trustworthy doctor, “Nothing to be worried about.”

“No, I know,” Stiles backpedals. “I’ve done the whole drop-your-pants thing before.”

Peter smiles. He’s close enough to let his eyes flick over the smoothness of Stiles’ pale cheeks, resisting the urge to run his thumb down his jaw and feel the softness for himself.

“Good,” he says smoothly, stepping closer. “Then drop your pants.”

“Right. Okay.”

So he does. He hops off the table, and Peter watches carefully as he all but stumbles out of his jeans before sliding out of his boxers as well. He looks quite despondent to part with his underwear, and Peter really is quite endeared. 

“Just relax,” Peter says as he advances, sliding his gloved hand down Stiles’ knee. It frustrates him to no end that he has to feel Stiles through latex, how Stiles’ shivers barely register between the layer of plastic separating their skin contact, but then he’s kneeling between Stiles’ legs and roving his eyes over his dick, soft between his thighs, and he forgets his frustration.

God, he has to control himself. The urge to slip up and take suckle the head of Stiles’ cock is overwhelming, how the boy would whimper and fist Peter’s hair—after all, Stiles always has to be fondling something just to occupy his fidgeting hands—and Peter would murmur words of encouragement up his shaft, telling him to let go, just let go.

He pointedly ignores his mind, his itching hands, and the heat building in his midsection. He’s a grown man brought to his knees and watering at the mouth by a teenage boy, not special in his own right in any sense of the way with the exception of how Peter imagines he would look with his bite marks all over his skin. Maybe one on the pallid skin of his hip, and more bites trailing down his leg. Peter’s thumb grazes his inner thigh and wonders how yielding the flesh would be under his teeth, how quickly the skin would break and spill trickles of blood. Stiles’ leg trembles under his touch and he remembers the examination.

Not that he has to be examined—Stiles’ body is just fine. One might even say near perfect if looking through Peter’s eyes, which are especially tinted for finding sparks in otherwise dry land. Perfect for marking, perfect for possessing whole-heartedly, perfect for writhing in uncontrolled ecstasy. He runs his fingertips down Stiles’ thighs, squeezing, waiting for the slow exhale to come out of Stiles’ lips and his muscles to relax.

“That’s it,” Dr. Hale murmurs, hand sliding forward to slip over his dick. He looks up and Stiles’ eyes are closed, whether it be in humiliation or a desperate attempt to relax, Peter doesn’t care. He slides his palm to the base of Stiles’ length, reveling in the weight and warmth in his grip. He listens to Stiles breathe, just slow, long exhales, and then he understands—he’s trying not to get hard. Peter feels something in his control snap.

“Uh,” Stiles mumbles to the ceiling. He looks horribly embarrassed, like he isn’t sure if he should apologize or shift away or casually blame his hormones. And then, just as he’s fumbling for words, Peter starts chuckling.

“It’s normal,” he murmurs, hands sliding off Stiles’ dick and landing on Stiles’ knees. His mouth is wet, aching to lean in and get a taste as Stiles’ dick thickens. “Happens often.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Peter murmurs from between his knees, fixing Stiles with another slow grin as he tips his chin up to find his eyes. He keeps the eye contact longer than necessary, just long enough for a tether to form between their gazes that feels like electricity. “Just a natural reaction.”

He’s not lying. Stiles isn’t the first person to get hard on Peter’s table, usually followed up with stammered excuses about having a wife and secured heterosexuality, but now he knows—Stiles is _enjoying_ this. He likes the touch of Peter’s fingers up his dick, and this knowledge feels like the extra rush of water that broke the bridge. Peter swallows and slides his hand down to finger at the head of Stiles’ dick.

“Everything looks normal, Stiles,” he rasps out. His voice is hoarse and broken to his own ears, frayed with a poorly concealed arousal that is starting to tent his pants. He steadies himself on Stiles’ thigh with his free hand and runs a finger back up to the base of Stiles’ penis. “You like to learn, don’t you?”

“I—what?”

“You’re a clever kid,” Peter elaborates. “I can see it in your eyes. Do you want to learn more?”

He fixes Stiles with another look from between his knees, sliding back into the reliable smile that everybody falls for. It feels painted on his face, especially now, when all Peter wants is to replace it with a primal growl that acts as Stiles’ only warning before he swallows his dick whole. Oh, the noises he would make—

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well,” Peter swallows, fingers shaking. He takes a breath and tries to wrap himself under restraint, sliding his thumb over the slit of Stiles’ dick. “This is the head of your penis, and right here,” he moves his fingers to right under the tip, “is your frenulum. It can be especially sensitive to the touch.”

“O-okay,” Stiles says, and he sounds like he’s nodding. Bless him for thinking this is part of the examination, just an innocent hands-on biology lesson, and Peter moves upwards, his hand curling around the base of his dick. He squeezes, just for a second, and hears a heady breath fly from Stiles’ mouth.

“Here’s the base—also sensitive if properly stimulated,” Peter tells him, licking his lips. He can already guess how Stiles would taste if he dragged his tongue up his erection, his skin salty against his tongue. He looks up and there are Stiles’ hands, digging into the paper sheet on the table. He moves his hand, pressing his fingertips into just the right spots. “And here’s your perineum, right under the testicles.”

“Ah—it tickles,” Stiles breathes. Peter hums and increases the pressure of his fingers, just gently rubbing until Stiles is arching his hips, just enough to let Peter know that his body is fully in Peter’s control. 

“It’s full of nerves,” Peter tells him softly, pressing two fingers against it. “Do you ever touch yourself here?”

“No,” Stiles says. He sounds wrecked already, all shaky breaths and careful words, and Peter wishes he could rip the gloves off. He takes another deep breath, counts to three, and slips his fingers further back. 

“You should,” Peter advises him. “You should explore your body, Stiles. Like here,” he circles his finger around Stiles’ puckered entrance, feeling it flutter under his touches. God, he wants to push Stiles onto the table and push back his knees just to get a good look at him, admire his pink opening and flick his tongue against it. Stiles has no idea, no idea how torturous he is. “Do you know what this is?”

“Y-yeah,” Stiles says, and his body shakes like he’s frantically nodding.

“Your anus,” Peter answers. He’s fully concentrated, eyes caught in rapt attention over Stiles’ hole as he rubs his finger around it before planting his hands on his ass and gently pulling, just to get a better view. Stiles’ breath hitches again, a delicious sound Peter wants to bottle up and drink, and he imagines what it’d be like to fuck Stiles for the first time, watch his dick disappear into his tiny hole. “A lot of boys shy away from touching it, discovering it. It too, however, is full of sensitive spots.”

“The prostate,” Stiles says, and Peter feels a smile pull at him. He catches his eye from between his legs.

“Very good,” he purrs. “Have you ever tried touching it, Stiles?”

Stiles shakes his head. His face is flushed, caught between a blend of embarrassment and arousal, and Peter keeps his eyes firm on Stiles’ face as he rubs a finger over his opening, watching his mouth fall open into a perfect pink _o_. 

“With the right preparation, you might enjoy it,” he whispers to him, finishing off his advice with a small, honorable grin. The idea of Stiles lying in his bed or under the spray of his shower, slipping his hands low past his length and probing into his hole, feeling for his prostate, fingering himself to completion is enough to push Peter’s masturbatory fantasies to the edge. He’ll be imagining it for days, Stiles spread open, fingers shy and unsure inside himself, starting to understand the idea of being fucked slowly, desperately. It wouldn’t take long for him to get curious, not when Stiles’ brain works with the same fast-paced gears Peter knows is in his own as well. He can tell from how his fingers twitch that he’s always aching to try something new and push himself to the limits.

“Preparation?” Stiles asks him. He sounds deliciously hoarse. 

“Lube. Anything to slick the way, something to stretch yourself open,” Peter tells him. His professionalism is slipping, making way for a primal need to come and make Stiles come next to him, and he tries once more to plaster on the responsible grin. “I can always prescribe you some, if you’re curious…”

“Oh,” Stiles says. His mouth is still open, lips so pretty Peter wants nothing more than to see him run his tongue along his cock, and then a tiny, embarrassed smile quirks on his mouth. “Have you tried it?”

Peter grins and says, “of course,” and watches Stiles’ face heat up. He moves his fingers to flit over his hole again, index finger just barely testing the waters, just barely pressing into dangerous territories, and he sees something flash in Stiles’ eyes telling him to try, push it in, just to the knuckle, and he feels his control slipping bit by bit, like threads hanging precariously onto torn fabric. “I’d show you, but… that’s for another time.”

He rises from his knees to drop onto his chair, rolling firmly away from Stiles’ spread legs to compose himself. He faces the door and breathes, curling his hands into fists and pushing away the pulses of urges rushing through his blood, telling him to swivel around and take Stiles’ dick into his mouth while he fingers him to completion, absolutely ignorant of the bustling hall and teeming waiting room outside of his door. That exposed skin, the contrast of those dark moles on his neck, his slender fingers and his bowed mouth press insistently into Peter’s mind and he pushes them aside, sliding back into the doctor’s persona and dropping his gloves in the trash can. He turns around.

“Another time?” Stiles is asking him, legs still bare. Peter lets himself stare, because if he can’t touch, he might as well look. He slots his hands together and fixes Stiles with another smile.

“When you come in for your prostate exam.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and then, “when will that be?”

Peter looks at him, his eyes wider than before and incredibly brown, and god, he’s _eager_. He wants it. He wants Peter’s fingers in his ass, milking his prostate and bringing him closer to the edge. His eyes flick downwards and he sees that Stiles is still hard, still aching to be touched, and he swallows carefully. Without the gloves he doesn’t feel nearly as in control.

“Whenever you want to come back,” Peter tells him smoothly. He hopes Stiles knows what he’s in for, because next time, he won’t be as gentle. He certainly won’t be as trustworthy, and he hopes Stiles has learned not to believe the façade of his smile anymore. “I’ll be ready.”

Stiles nods slowly, right before bending over and shuffling back into his boxers. Stiles isn’t stupid. Stiles is smart, completely aware of his surroundings, and he knows perfectly well that no teenager needs a prostate exam for no apparent reason, and Peter wonders if it means what he thinks he means. If anything, coincidences of such magnitude are nearly never coincidences. The world is too cautious, too in love with entertainment, too filthy, if Stiles’ lanky body is any sign of the last one.

He watches Stiles hop to his feet and bend over to reach for his jeans, and just as Peter’s watching the flex of his ass, Stiles peeks over his shoulder, catching his eye. He looks to be the perfect combination of confusion, mixing curiosity and smugness with apprehension of stepping out of his depth, and Peter will give him a real reason to blush if he wants it.

And if he’s right, Stiles wants it.

\--

Stiles calls him Dr. Hale, and he says it differently than the rest. The way it rolls off his tongue like a promise, or a question, or sometimes even a challenge, it lights a fire in Peter’s usually well coiled restraint. He’s a master of self-discipline, can hold himself at bay even when his primitive needs swim up over his common sense, and then there’s Stiles—testing his limits. It’s infuriating.

He sees him from the window of his office sitting in the waiting room, his fingers tapping out an incessant rhythm on the armrest and his father stationed next to him in his sheriff’s jacket. Peter knows from Stiles’ chart that Stiles is just a hop and a skip away from seventeen, close enough to be legal but still breathtakingly forbidden. He always will be. He’s the sheriff’s son, and he’s his patient, the boy who drops his pants for him and lets Peter cup his dick, and there will never be a time when he won’t be illicit goods, prohibited to touch by rules and regulations that are so easy to ignore.

He comes in for the routine, but it’s earlier than scheduled by at least a month. Peter watches him carefully in the waiting room, catalogues all of his shuffling and fiddling, and can practically smell the hormones on him. He’s not here to get his ears checked or his head analyzed, no matter what his father might believe. He’s here for Peter.

He slips into his coat and grabs his clipboard, easily sliding into the responsible grin of a man the waiting room likes to see and wave at. He steps out and says, “Stiles, are you ready?” and watches as his head perks up and his eyes dart to where Peter’s leaning into the hall. He’s like a flower leaning into the sun, so eager, so curious. Peter wants to ruin him.

Stiles hops up and pats his father on the back when he offers to go with him, grazing by a few chairs and following Peter into the examination room with a spring in his step that tells Peter that he isn’t afraid. If anything, he’s prepared, and the mental image of Stiles actually following his advice and playing with his hole until the discomfort turned to pleasure is enough to send him spiraling down into a place where his self-restraint no longer exists. He shuts the door behind them, and as an afterthought, locks it.

“Back so soon?” he whispers over his shoulder as he circles around. He spares a glance at the glove box, wondering if it would be appropriate. It probably would be, except Peter’s got no intention of keeping this within proper limitations.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says. He hops up onto the table, and Peter can see the excitement and the nerves bubbling under his skin. He smiles and steps forward.

“Take off your shirt,” he tells him softly, and watches as Stiles wrangles it off his head. “Let’s check you out.”

Peter very much believes in the art of the slow build-up. He believes in the gentle persuasion, in watching a heartbeat rise, and Stiles is a particularly special case. He grabs his stethoscope from the counter, and winds it around his neck, positioning the cool end in between the canal of Stiles’ chest. He listens to Stiles’ sharp inhale of surprise at the cold and shushes him with soft _shhhh_ s, sliding his palm onto Stiles’ bare shoulder. He feels it flex under his grip and wants, really wants, to turn him into a sobbing mess of need before he so much as gets near to his prize.

“Cold,” Stiles mumbles as Peter moves it further down. He nods slowly.

“It’ll warm up,” he murmurs. He hears the steady sound of Stiles’ heartbeat echo in his ears, faster than most and rising by the second. “Breathe in. And out.” He brushes his hand down Stiles’ shoulder to graze his chest, his palm catching on his nipple on the way down, Stiles’ resulting exhale shaky at best. His heart rate starts speeding, faster yet, and Peter smiles. “Now tell me. What are you so nervous about?”

His heartbeat jumps, loud in Peter’s ear with the stethoscope’s magnification. “…huh?” 

“Your palpitations are quite fast,” Peter clarifies softly, gently. Like a hunter with a deer. He ought to test the waters, see how warmly it treats him. “Not still scared of the doctor, are you?”

“No,” Stiles answers, a quirky smile twisting his mouth.

“Of course not, you’re a big boy,” Peter murmurs, moving to his backside and running the stethoscope up his spine. Stiles breathes in and out obediently, and Peter leans just a fraction closer to his ear. “Then maybe… you’re excited?”

He takes the opportunity and slides his hand down to the waistband of Stiles’ pants, the small of his back fluttering at the warm touch as he slips in two fingers, two gentle fingers probing the water, into Stiles’ boxers to touch the curve of his ass. Peter grabs a glance at his face, mouth open like he’s not sure how to properly put his thoughts into words—wittily enough? Carefully enough? If Stiles is half as smart as Peter assumes he is, then he knows perfectly well how delicate this situation could be. Silly laws, and all. Peter’s just glad they skipped the whole _but you’re a doctor_ spiel that Peter would have to answer with a graceful eye roll and an explanation that a medical license doesn’t mean you play by the rules and instead moved straight to the wordless agreement that yes, they’re doing this. Yes, Stiles wants this.

“Stiles,” Peter presses, slipping his fingers in deeper to settle in the crack of Stiles’ ass. “Tell me. Why is your heartbeat so fast?”

Stiles groans, honest to god groans, and wiggles his ass. “Like you don’t know.”

He sounds exasperated and horny and if the ruts of his ass against his hand is any indication, needy to be touched. Peter smiles.

“That would be quite unprofessional,” he murmurs.

He waits for the _are you sure this is okay_ or the _are you really doing this_ or even the _aren’t doctors supposed to have a moral compass_ and nothing comes out of Stiles’ mouth. He already knows all the answers, anyway, and Peter is glad to skip the unnecessary chit chat.

“Yeah, it would be,” Stiles comments, idly reaching around to scratch at the back of his neck. Peter focuses in on it, zeroing in on the short hairs by the nape of his neck and the slender fingers resting there on his shoulder. “So I guess you’re lucky I can keep a secret.”

Peter laughs. What a fleeting promise, so fickle indeed. A teenager’s word that he won’t rattle to his father the sheriff about how his doctor slid a hand down his pants and wasn’t even looking for parasites while he was down there. And oddly enough, Peter believes him, because his brown eyes are wide with curiosity and legs are shifting on the table like he’s waiting to shed the cumbersome layer of his jeans, and after all—there’s only so long Peter can hold himself in control.

He slips his hand out of Stiles’ pants, circling back around to the front of the table, and pulls off his mask, the honorable front that the patients want to see. Beneath it lies his baser urges, his need to indulge in his every want, and Peter lets Stiles see the wolfish grin that takes over his lips. Stiles doesn’t move a muscle except for the flick of his eyes down to Peter’s mouth, watching him cautiously, and Peter takes that as his go ahead.

“All right then,” Peter murmurs. “Take off your pants and get on all fours.”

It's his last warning, Stiles’ last chance to back out and go home with his innocence and a shaky trust in the American medical system. Or if seen differently, his last invitation. He waits for the flash of hesitance to appear in Stiles’ eyes, any sign of tentativeness, and then Stiles licks his lips with that obscene tongue of his and unzips his jeans, shucking them down to his ankles alongside his underwear. He steps out of them, his hands sure as he sweeps his clothing aside, and he obediently climbs into the table. 

Watching Stiles steady himself on his knees and palms is a true test to Peter's patience. He wants to charge forward without wasting time on tact or pause, align his cock with Stiles’ hips and ram home—but he's waited this long. He can wait a bit longer. 

He steps closer and smooths his hands over Stiles’ ass, perfectly on display and pale in the bright exam room lamps. It feels better this time under his grip without the gloves to separate them, and Peter bites on his lip to steady himself as he rubs his thumb over the dimples low on his back. He wants to pleasure himself, wants to take delight in this, but more than that, he wants to see Stiles come apart. 

"Did you follow my advice, Stiles?" He mumbles, gently kneading Stiles’ ass and feeling his shudders vibrate through his fingers. "Did you explore your body?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "It was... different."

"And did you come?"

Stiles swallows. "No. Couldn't reach—couldn't get to my prostate."

"Hmm," Peter murmurs. "We better check that out." 

He slides his left hand off Stiles’ ass, reaching for the cupboard with the tub of lube. He unscrews the lid and dips two fingers in, sliding them together to warm up the slickness, right before rubbing his fingertips over Stiles’ hole. The abrupt touch surprises him, a wave of shock rippling through his muscles, so Peter goes back to softly massaging his ass with his free hand as he strokes the puckered opening slowly, fascinatingly. Stiles’ body is just so responsive, flexing and leaning into every movement, and Peter eases in a finger to hear the sound of the gasp leave Stiles’ mouth.

“Just relax,” Peter murmurs, sliding in to the knuckle. His fingers are thicker than Stiles’, less slender and more demanding, and the tight heat that surrounds him as he slowly twists his finger, the lube wetting the way, has him reeling. It’s possible that he’s talking to himself more than Stiles. “Relax…”

He leans in, lips parted and warm breaths landing on Stiles’ ass as he watches his finger slip inside. He works it in carefully, not keen on rushing, especially as Stiles’ short gasps and poorly concealed whimpers reach his ears and encourage him to go faster, to push more fingers into him and hear him howl. He slips it back out a moment later, his fingertip circling Stiles’ hole reverently to watch it furl around him.

“ _Hnnn_ ,” Stiles whines, and he sounds so needy, so desperate, Peter can’t deny him. He pushes back in, harder than before, shushing the sharp intakes of his breath and stretching him carefully. He looks and Stiles is getting hard, cock filling as Peter starts up a slow rhythm of pumping his finger out, just to the tip, and sliding back in. He could watch this all day, eyes attentive on how Stiles’ body swallows him in.

“You know, Stiles,” Peter says. “Some men can achieve orgasm just solely through stimulation of their prostate. What do you say?”

“I—I can believe that.”

“It’s a slow process, of course,” Peter continues, continuing his steady ministrations. “First comes the excitement, then the plateau… then the orgasm mounts. The tension builds, all through perspiration, rapid breathing, muscle contractions—all of this uncontrollable. Without a single touch anywhere but… a prostate. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Stiles isn’t in a state to respond, not when Peter rams his finger back in and watches Stiles’ back arch and listens to the heady groan that follows. He smirks, because it seems he’s found Stiles’ pleasure button, the downfall of humanity, the weakness of anybody controlled by their body rather than the other way around. It’s exhilarating, nearly dizzying, just to watch Stiles react, and Peter nudges his prostate with his fingertip, just barely, watching him jerk and whimper.

He slips his finger out and Stiles tenses, seemingly preparing for the next onslaught of bliss, but Peter contains himself. He rubs his backside, careful not to end this too quickly when he’s just barely begun having fun with Stiles, and waits for Stiles’ breathing to slow, two fingers ghosting, barely touching, over his glistening hole.

“Holy,” Stiles is mumbling, head hung. “D-doctor—”

“Shh,” Peter quiets him softly, fingers tapping over the knobs of his spine. Such a delicate body, meant to be toyed with and unhurriedly explored, and Peter is in no rush. He pushes back in, this time with an extra finger, and his eyes close at the tempting sound of Stiles’ whimpers at the additional stretch. So responsive, so receptive.

Stiles’ ass is tight, incredibly tight and hot around two fingers, and Peter takes his time working them in, languorously easing him open until his body relaxes. His thumb brushes over Stiles’ stretched hole as he does so, his own pulse skyrocketing at the sight of Stiles’ entrance taking his fingers while it’s still shining from the slipperiness of the lube. 

He slides them in far enough to brush against Stiles’ prostate, just barely, and he takes pity when Stiles answers him with a low moan. He rubs against him, massaging, abusing his prostate with just the right pressure, crooking his finger and relentlessly touching. The onslaught must be too much, much too much pleasure at once, and Peter feels his own cock thicken insistently at Stiles’ groans—and god, he’s so loud. Of course he is. Always with an opinion, always eager to open his mouth, of course he’s vocal enough to be heard through the walls.

Still, Peter doesn’t relent, sliding his free hand around Stiles’ mouth to muffle his litany of groans while he pumps his fingers into his him. Stiles’ entire body is r-rated, the way he uses his mouth to his advantage and his back arches and flexes into every push of Peter’s fingers, the way his legs tremble and body sags with every rub against his prostate. Yes, Peter is pretty certain he can come like this, just at Peter’s ruthless fingering.

“Can you come like this, Stiles?” Peter mutters, and he pushes in another finger without an warning, Stiles’ groans getting louder with the stretch. “Just from my fingers?”

“Y-yes, _yes_ ,” Stiles groans. His back ruts into every single one of Peter’s thrusts, pushing into his fingers and driving them deeper, pushing them against his prostate. Peter wants to grab him by his hair, pull him back and fuck him with his fingers all day until he’s whimpering from the sensitivity. 

“Do you want to?” Peter growls. He pulls out and pushes in, harder still, the hand on his own dick matching the pace of his merciless fingers. “Say please.”

“Yes, yeah, _please_ ,” Stiles cries out. Peter wishes he could see his face right now, flushed pink and eyes shut with ecstasy, mouth so eager to deliver the begging Peter wants to hear. “Please, I’m so—so close.”

All the sounds Stiles is making, the hungry, eager ones, Peter wants to take them home and play them back at will. He’s such a perfect patient, such a perfect play toy, and he slides his hand free from Stiles’ mouth just to unbutton his pants. God, he wants to come all over that pretty hole, still stretched to accommodate Peter’s fingers, thrusting faster now to bring Stiles closer, and he slides his own dick free from the confines of his pants.

“Oh—oh god,” Stiles is saying on repeat. Peter starts stroking himself, thumb brushing over where the precome is gathering, eyes addicted to the sight of his fingers sliding in and out of Stiles’ hole. “I’m gonna—”

He knows when Stiles comes, can tell from the way his ass contracts around his fingers and his back flutters, the way his entire body goes lax and breathless after arching into Peter’s touch like it was the only tether keeping him to reality. Peter slides his fingers free, watches them slip from Stiles’ slick hole, and pumps himself faster. God, coming without even having to be _touched_ —

He growls Stiles’ name when he comes as well, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his skull as he does, every pent-up tightly wound coil of impatience that was waiting to touch Stiles, have him at his mercy, rushing free as his come splatters over Stiles’ ass, over his hole and downwards. The sight is enough to rob him of his air, his eyes feasting on the way it trickles down to Stiles’ thighs, and he leans in to brush over it with his thumb, rubbing it into Stiles’ skin. A teenage boy with too many nervous ticks will be the death of him—how unlikely. Life is full of surprises.

“Good boy, Stiles,” he murmurs as his breathing comes back to him, petting Stiles’ backside. He’s still shaking, still incredibly warm under his touch. “Such a good patient.”

Stiles doesn’t move, his ass still poised in the air and his skin pliant as Peter rubs at his hips. He wanted to leave marks, bite marks and crescent fingernail indentations, but there’s always next time. He watches his come slide down from Stiles’ asshole, probably marked better than his teeth could have done anyway, and tucks himself back into his pants.

“Everything looks good?” Stiles finally asks, and Peter can hear the blush on his nose before he picks himself up from the table. His voice is just hoarse enough that Peter can imperceptibly tell the difference from the start of the appointment, like the chants of groans have scratched at his throat. 

“Everything looks perfect, Stiles,” Peter murmurs. He zips up his pants and the doctor is back, the same responsible adult that everybody sees smile at them from underneath the white coat and the gloves. He steps forward just as Stiles reaches for his boxers feet hitting the ground and thighs quivering as he does, and bless him, Peter swallows audibly as he doesn’t even bother to wipe his ass clean, almost like he wants Peter’s come on his skin. “But, I’ll still want to see you regularly. Just check-ups.”

He says it in such a way that Stiles can interpret it as he wants—as innocently as it may seem or as filthy as it could be. He watches Stiles shimmy into his pants slung low on his waist and crowds into his space, grabbing Stiles by the hair to pull aside his chin and find access to his neck. It’s pale and smooth and definitely needs a lasting mark, so Peter leans in and fastens his teeth around his chest, just above his nipple, and bites.

He waits until his teeth sink past skin, breaking the surface until dots of blood drip onto his awaiting tongue, and he keeps Stiles in place with a hand furled around his hair while he drags his tongue over the angry mark, a few pierces where his teeth nipped him oozing tiny bits of crimson. Stiles shudders underneath him, still in his grasp, and Peter steps away to rub his thumb over the mark, and then the vein of his neck, and then the dark moles on his cheek. He’d love to kiss him, to draw the same blood from his bottom lip and pull it into his mouth, but he plays it better safe than sorry with the sheriff waiting for his kid to come traipsing out into the hall. Still, he really is too delicious to resist, Peter thinks, grinning at the dazed look in Stiles’ eyes, and just as fun to mess with.

“So,” he says, stepping back to grab his clipboard. “We’ll see you in a few weeks? A few months?”

“Uh,” Stiles says. He still looks like he’s gathering his thoughts, flushed as he grabs his shirt and tugs it over his head. “Soon.”

He looks so debauched, so pleased, that Peter knows he will. Soon, he thinks. He can wait that long.

\--

Peter gives it a few months, perhaps three, before he sees Stiles again—but he forgets one crucial detail when he makes his deduction: never underestimate the sex drive of a teenage boy. It’s only a few short weeks when he sees Stiles again. He’s sitting in the waiting room, completely alone this time without a single guardian to linger over him, and Peter feels himself heat up before he even gets Stiles in his grasp.

“So,” he asks him from the privacy of the examination room. “Does your father know you’re here?”

He goes to lock the door and when he turns around, Stiles is already unbuckling his pants, something primal in his eyes—the same thing Peter knows is in his own as well. He smiles.

“No,” Stiles tells him easily as he kicks off his pants. “And he doesn’t have to.”

Well, Peter thinks. He can certainly make a few exceptions for his favorite patient.


End file.
